


Won't you feline my valentine?

by Last_Haven



Series: Love Is [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Het and Slash, M/M, Nekotalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Haven/pseuds/Last_Haven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Nations, like humans, are baffling creatures to their pets."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't you feline my valentine?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://usxuk.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://usxuk.livejournal.com/)**usxuk** 's Sweetheart Week. Prompt was 'Valentine's Day'. That title is perhaps the worst pun I have ever made in my life. Beta-read by the awesome Ellarose C/hotbabysitter.

When an animal lived with a nation, strange things would begin to happen to that animal. Their lives would lengthen, their health would improve to the point that they rarely got sick, and their intelligence would grow. America’s whale was more than twice as old as any of its wild brethren, Japan’s cat could talk (which made for a frightening but hilarious party gag), and Prussia’s chick ran a blog.

In comparison to these animals, Little Al—his actual name was Ben, but Canada had been the one to nickname him Little Al and it stuck—was a pretty ordinary cat. He was over ten years old now, and although he still acted like a spritely kitten, America only had to “misremember” how old he was and people would accept it. He only just begun to “speak” to the other nations’ cats, and even that was a struggle. However, just because he wasn’t as old as his fellow cats didn’t mean he was stupid; he was perfectly capable of making astute observations, particularly when it came to his master and his boyfriend.

There were plenty of things he slowly began to realize his master did that regular humans didn’t. For one, humans couldn’t just be sitting one minute in Boston then get up and take one literal step before arriving in Las Vegas. A human couldn’t reattach a limb if it was cut off (a chainsaw accident involving a surprise visit from Canada and a misfiring shotgun, but that was all Tony would say to Little Al).

But at least his master still celebrated like a human. Every year on the day before his birthday, his master invited most of the neighborhood for a giant barbeque and fireworks show which meant plenty of dropped food for Little Al to eat. At Christmas he put up a massive tree and long strings of lights that served to delight Little Al for hours at a time.

Valentine’s Day, however, remained a mystery to him.

“They’re fighting again,” he commented as he sat down next to Rose.

“When aren’t they fighting?” she quipped as she daintily cleaned her paws. The Scottish fold cat cared little for whatever their masters were quarrelling about. Little Al had always both wary and complete awe of the molly; she was twice as aloof and disinterested as any cat Little Al had ever met, and that was after one took into consideration his Maine Coon disposition. Tama, Japan’s cat, once told Little Al that it might have something to do with the fact that for the longest time, England labored under the belief that Rose was male and called her Watson for years before she had her first litter. Whether she felt slighted or just had a hormone problem, Rose rarely interacted with their fellow cats, and only allowed Little Al’s presence because America was very fond of taking his pet everywhere with him, including her master’s home. For the most part, Little Al assumed that she didn’t care too much for him, but she made for an interesting acquaintance and conversationalist when he could get her to talk.

“But what are they fighting about this time?” he asked; as he watched her groom, his gaze flickered to his own coat. The fur on his flanks could use some straightening, he mused, and quickly set to fixing it.  
“Valentine’s Day gifts. Just as they did last year, and all the years before that. You would think they’d learn, but they never do.” 

He glanced up mid stroke, tongue caught between his teeth. “What’s so important about Valentine’s Day, anyway?”

Rose sneered at him. “Put your tongue away—you look ridiculous.”

Cocking his head to the side, he pulled his tongue back. “Well, you might want to worry more about the hair sticking up on the back of your head rather than my tongue. Want some help with that?”

The molly quickly began to try to flatten the nonexistent unruly fur outside of her vision. She tried her best and growled each time he lied about it until at last she gave in and let him groom the back of her head.

“You smell good,” he said as he paused to nuzzle at her neck. He recognized that smell; Rose growled and batted him away.

“Enough of that, tomcat,” she snapped as she smacked his nose. “I’m in no mood for your mischief.”

_Well, crap,_ he thought, _better change topics._ “Well,” he said after he glanced back to their owners, “it looks like America and your England are about done.”

Sure enough, as soon as he spoke, his master turned on his heel with one last exasperated shout and stalked out the door, slamming it hard enough that both cats flinched along with England.

“Uh oh,” Little Al murmured, ears dropping as England continued to breathe heavily, like when Little Al gave him and America their afternoon exercise of chasing him around the house as they tried to rescue their stolen lunch. “I think it was something bad this time.”

“Nonsense. If it were, America would have taken you with him,” Rose replied primly as she stood and walked over to her master. Little Al watched with great amusement and no little awe as the stuffy molly turned on her charm and began to wind herself around her master’s legs, mewling sympathetically up at him. He quickly scooped her up and carried her to the couch where he promptly pressed his nose into her neck and tried to calm his breath. Rose shot Little Al a pointed look; catching his cue, the tom hurried from his spot and jumped up into England’s lap, purring like a motor. Gradually, England calmed down until he began to mutter curses and insults about America. Had it been anyone else, Little Al would have left them with some shredded clothing and numerous wounds to teach them better, but since America liked England and the green eyed man would usually slip him some tasty treat when no one was looking, Little Al could never hold a few unkind words against him.

For the next few hours, once England worked himself into a big enough fit to clean every inch of the house in sight without mercy, there was little either cat could do but wait. It was near eleven at night and England was just about to ruin some good cuts of salmon when the doorbell rang. They watched as England warily approached the door.

Of course it was America; Little Al perked up at hearing his owner’s voice while Rose grumbled and wondered if perhaps he returned to make amends or to just rile her master up more. However, despite some rough words for greetings, both cats watched with interest—or rather, to be truthful to Rose, _dis_ interest—as both nations quickly warmed back up to each other when America produced a rather large bag of sweets.

“Great, now they’ll make enough racket to keep half the neighborhood awake,” Rose groused as their masters quickly began to trip up the stairs, too busy trying to suck each other’s faces off to see where they were going.

Little Al smiled after them before turning to the molly. “I know something that can cheer you up.”

Perhaps it was a sign that she’d spent too much time with her owner that she actually raised one of her thick patches of fur above her eyes, like a human arching an eyebrow. Still, it amused him enough that he ignored the condescension in her gaze as he hopped off the couch and padded into the kitchen.

Thankfully, England had forgotten to do two things; one was that he failed to even turn the stove on, although that was a blessing since Little Al would have been clueless to turn it off, even if he did somehow grow fingers to turn the knob. Secondly, he’d also forgotten to put the salmon cuts away. Chirping in delight, Little Al climbed up and grabbed a few slices before carrying back to the living room. With little thought to the stain it would leave on the sofa, he dropped a piece on the cushion for Rose before curling up next to her with his own slices.

“Happy Valentine Day, Rosie,” Little Al chirped, nuzzling her neck again—she smelled _really_ good—purring deep in his throat.

“Alright, alright,” she chuckled and batted her head against his in a rare sign of affection. “Save it until _after_ dinner, tomcat.”

Little Al perked up and quickly turned his attention to devouring his food as she laughed at him.

* * *

Near three months later, America got a very aggravated call from England. Tony shook his head while Little Al preened as America tried to get out of taking half of the new litter of Maine Coon/Scottish Fold mix kittens home with him. Even when America turned his half amused, not very disapproving gaze upon the cat, Little Al only twitched his tail and chirped up at him.


End file.
